


A Little Absinthe Minded

by Graphophobic



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Trans Character, Cryptid hunter!Robert, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Paranormal, Robert Route Spoilers, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, possibly or possibly not a vampire Damien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2018-12-07 22:51:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11633598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graphophobic/pseuds/Graphophobic
Summary: Robert Smalls knows his shit when it comes to the paranormal: there’s only one real piece of footage of Big Foot ‘cause the dude’s shy, the Dover Ghost literally haunts him and he swears it steals his socks just to spite him, Mothman’s bullshit but honestly? He gets it. Anyone with a hard on for Mothman would see a poltergeist or flying demon and jump to conclusions. You see what you want, after all.However, moving back to Maple Bay was supposed to help him let go of this obsession. He was going to wane off, maybe cut the late night cryptid hunting down to once a week and spend more time in town, reconnect with civilization – granted, he’d need whiskey to help with that bit, but he was working up to it.Yet, all this careful planning to ease away from his fixations with the unknown and dip his toes into social acceptance is t-boned when he meets his pale, pointy toothed, Victorian dressed, definitely-not-a-vampire neighbour, Damien Bloodmarch.





	1. Chapter 1

Robert lets out a grunt as he closes the truck's bed hatch, taking a moment to tug at the ropes that secured his worldly possessions before rounding the truck, leaning against the passenger side door. Betsy excitedly props herself up against the door and he gives her a scratch behind the ear through the open window.

“Everything accounted for, partner?” he asks quietly, giving her a short scratch under the chin. He was sure that she’d miss having leashless reign of the woods surrounding them and the freedom to jump into the nearby lake whenever she wanted, but they could always revisit the place. A small cabin in the woods, a couple hours drive from the next nearest living person was usually nice to visit in the summer for a weekend, right?

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Robert pulls out a cigarette. One last smoke before hitting the road. He manages to flick his lighter open before he hears a familiar, spine chilling howl. Annoyed, he casts a dirty look toward the formless darkness of the woods before lighting the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

Three cryptids lurked in this area. A gentle lake monster, some sort of hairy, lumbering bipedal, and an aggressive bloodsucker; the activity had made this area so appealing when he first moved here, where it drove most people as far away from the forested lake as they could. All in all, it’s been a good few years. All of his limbs and dog intact. Some thirty hours of static whispering death threats and footage of unnatural orbs and blobs in the darkness. Honestly, if he were a man with something to prove, he could write a bestselling book. Or a really popular wikiHow article.

How to find Cryptids by Robert Smalls. Step one: uproot your life and find an isolated lake where people have mysteriously died. Take note of the noises. Hear any wildlife? Birds singing, frogs chirping? If so, you need to find another lake. Shit should be so quiet, you can hear your thoughts echo and amplify into a screeching feedback loop. It’s a sign that there’s something around that even nature is afraid of.

As nice as it was to fantasize though, he wasn’t in it for the fame and fortune. No, this was for his own peace of mind. A means to prove to himself that there really is something out there, and there _is_. It’s fun, to delve into the unknown. The thrills, the chills, and the arsenal of stories to supplement an already silver tongue more than make it worth it. If he _really_ wanted to, he probably could pull off a decent show to rival Long Haul Ice Road Paranormal Ghost Truckers but where would the fun in that be? Real evidence quickly turns to embellishment to boost those ratings and, as much as he loved embellishing his stories, he also loved watching someone’s face go from disbelief to rapt fascination as he imparted unto them his otherworldly wisdom.

Even if there's an equal amount of embellishment on both ends, people believe the scarred, every man over some tv show’s 22 minute quota any day.

Tossing his cigarette onto the ground, he rounds the truck’s hood to the driver’s side. His own, personal demon lets out another bloodcurdling howl and he rolls his eyes, slamming the door shut and turning his keys. The twilight settles into dusk as his engine sputters to life and the truck starts moving.

He casts another glance over his shoulder at the lake, a silent goodbye to the three cryptids of the area. Buggers may as well have been his roommates, leaving dead birds at his doorstep and breaking his boat oars. Shitty roommates but he wasn’t much better, constantly filming them and pissing in their woods. Still, you get attached. It’s why people call the monster of Loch Ness Nessie. Though, his affectionate nicknames of various expletives weren’t so eloquent or marketable.

May the tale of Mudfucker, the oar snapper, never die.

But, there’ll always be one cryptid he’ll never shake. These three assholes, he can leave behind, but the howling will always follow him. He’s tried to get away from it. Moved from city to suburb to city to isolated woods trying to, but with no success. It was the reason he became so obsessed. At first, he thought he was just hearing things, imagining them after his wife died. But the more he heard it, the less certain he became of himself, of his sanity. There were a few months where he didn’t know what to do.

Then he figured it out. Met a few people, got information, got the confirmation he needed that he wasn’t the only one that heard the howls. Paranoia wasn’t causing him to imagine things, but rather, things were causing his paranoia. Delved deeper and deeper, got better at identifying what was media bullshit and what could be squinted at with a discerning eye. Real blobs, fake blobs. Found a name for his blob.

The Dover Ghost. An inspired title, not entirely of his own choosing but that was probably for the best when it came to telling his stories. You call the bane of your existence a screaming, melodramatic preteen _one time_ and you lose someone completely.

As quiet as Maple Bay was, he knew that it would follow him there. Always made cryptid hunting in slow areas exciting but he’d never get a break. At this point, he figured it would haunt him until he died. All these years and he still didn’t know enough about the fucker to sleep soundly without a knife under his pillow.

What he did know was that a lock on his sock drawer wouldn’t prevent one of a matching pair to go missing at night. And that’s what really made his blood run cold.

He sneaked a sidelong glance at the woods to his left as he drove. The darkness was palpable, oozing between the trees.

It’d be a long drive to Maple Bay.

* * *

 

An hour into his drive, his phone buzzes.

This is a frequent occurrence when he takes his biweekly supply trip back into civilization. Signal suddenly picks him up and a slew of messages arrive all at once. Though, it’s usually just Mary making sure he hasn’t died. Which he appreciates most days.

However, a quick glance at the screen while cruising along the deserted road has him abruptly pulling over. Betsy groggily lifts her head at the sudden jolt before going back to sleep.

Robert stares at the phone, eyebrows knit like a complicated puzzle has him stumped. Which may be exactly what he’s looking at, considering the names that have sent him messages in the last few weeks.

The first is Mary, unsurprisingly. In a meagre attempt to alleviate his stress, he opens that message first.

Wrathful Wine-o: hey smalls, managed to drown in a lake yet? get eaten by bears?

Sent one week ago. He snorts, swallowing down the lump in his throat before tapping out a quick reply.

Me: you wish  
Me: close call tho  
Me: they put in an honest effort  
Me: but i was ready  
Me: im always ready

After a moment’s deliberation, he sends another string of texts.

Me: btw im coming back  
Me: for a while at least  
Me: a longer than usual while  
Me: be seeing u tmrw

For a moment, he steadies his breath, silently hoping Mary would respond. She wouldn’t be asleep at 10:30PM. But then again, last time he saw her in person was like, six months ago. Her new offspring had to be… what, two now? Three? Plus the three other kids… As disconnected as she could be toward them in company, she had her own way of being motherly when her rep wasn’t on the line. He respected the way she quietly managed the two worlds. Though, it did make him feel… guilty, when he thought about it for too long. 

Or when he thinks about how little effort he put toward the _one_ kid in his own life. Reluctantly, his eyes trail to the second message he received, sent two days ago. Correction: multiple second messages.

Val: Hey dad. Been a while. Too long, I guess.  
Val: Anyways.  
Val: I’m going to be in Maple Bay at the end of the month.  
Val: Wanted to know if you wanted to talk.  
Val: Growing up was… pretty shitty, honestly.  
Val: I’ve hated you for a long time.  
Val: But… I guess I’m tired of feeling this way.  
Val: Wanted to see if things could be different.  
Val: Let me know if you want to meet up.  
Val: … You still live in Maple Bay, right?

Robert stared blankly at the string of messages, reading them over a few times and swallowing the lump in his throat a few times. This was… he wasn’t expecting something like this out of the blue. Especially not from her.

Last time he saw her in person was at Marilyn’s funeral four years ago, and then… Nothing. Well, not completely. There were texts. Curt birthday wishes and holiday formalities. Nothing friendly or any invitations to spend time together, just basic signs of continued existence following a social protocol. Sometimes he wondered if someone in her life had to remind her when those dates rolled around. Whoever _was_ in her life now.

With a shaky breath, Robert lit a cigarette, leaning closer to the window. He let the cool night air wash over him and the calming smoke fill his lungs. The timing was too convenient. Leaving the literal demons in his life only to come face to face with the figurative ones he’d been ignoring up until this point.

Too convenient. He regrets packing his whiskey in the truck bed.

A few more puffs and a deep, smoky sigh later, he lifted the phone with a new determination.

Me: hey val-

He hesitates, before erasing the message and retyping. Let’s at least _pretend_ to have our shit together.

Me: Hey Val.  
Me: Hope things are well.  
Me: Surprised to hear from you.  
Me: Yes, I’m still in Maple Bay.

Robert thinks longer about the next text he sends.

Me: I’d like that. Meeting up.  
Me: If you want to. It’d be nice.

Hopefully she’ll read pleasantly surprised instead of the low-key dread and panic chilling his bloodstream at the moment. A second later and he sends another text in amendment.

Me: Sorry for the late reply.  
Me: Been camping this week.  
Me: No shirt, no shoes, no cell service.

She didn’t need to know about the cryptid hunting hobby turned lifestyle. If he had his way, she’d never know and just take whatever stories he tells her as his usual style of creative storytelling. Cautiously, he watched his phone until the screen timed out to black. Val probably wouldn’t text back this late with the crazy hours involved in what she did for a living. Might see something from her tomorrow though. Least he had some time to think about what he’d do.

A month though… Jesus. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed without thinking about this more.

He hasn’t lived in civilization consistently for two fucking years, and he just agreed to see his daughter. His extremely well adjusted, successful daughter. Who doesn’t know that he’s spent most of his widowed years chasing and being chased after by creatures unidentified. Suddenly hyper aware of his own skin, he sniffed at his armpit. When was the last time he showered?

“Jesus,” he groaned, rubbing his face.

 _Bzz bzz._ The sudden vibration made him jolt, warily eying the phone. Val’s never responded that fast before. And this late? His heart was in his throat as he reached for the device again.

A sigh of relief. It was just Mary. Asking to meet up at Jim n Kim’s for a drink tomorrow. The world’s still turning.

He tossed the phone back down, not bothering to respond, and pulling back onto the empty road. The quiet zen he’d felt driving down the empty road had become a suffocating trap for his own thoughts to inhabit with this new development, so his fingers found their way to the radio dial. He twists the static away until the mournful melody of Neil Young settles comfortably into his body. Robert focuses on the lethargic instruments and rhythm more than the words and what they mean, tapping his fingers against the wheel.

It’d be a few more hours ‘til he reached anywhere that’s somewhere. Least he’d have some time to get his shit together.

But man, he wished he had his whiskey to help the cause.

* * *

 

Pulling into the familiar cul-de-sac was a surreal experience. Partly because nothing had changed… seemingly. It was like he was playing a game of spot the difference with his memory. Everything looked normal but there were subtle differences.

Like the sale sign in front of the house beside Mary’s, a SOLD marker boldly plastered over it. Huh. Guess there’ll be a new neighbour sometime soon… Not that he really remembers a lot of the people around. Unless they’ve been around for a while. Brian, Mary and her… attachments, teacher man, coffee guy… The sports family… Something like that. The names will come to him when he sees their faces.

However, as he followed the street toward his house, there was one massive difference he couldn’t overlook; his neighbour that _wasn’t_ Mary appeared to have redecorated. Holy… shit.

Now, he wasn’t big on the “attack of the clones” look of the cul-de-sac. Most of the personal touches to each of the houses were small. Well-groomed gardens, freshly mowed lawns, bird feeders, some discarded toys in the grass or a couple lawn chairs. But the houses themselves were similar enough to look like they belonged with one another. Even if some of the houses were slightly larger than others, they were uniform in their architecture and style but… damn.

He did not remember the house beside his own looking so… unique. It wasn’t much larger than his but it felt like it lurked over him through the sheer power of character. The whole exterior seemed to have been redone. Or just really well painted. But even the darkest paint alone couldn’t give that amount of gothic attitude to a contemporary house, right? Like, it seems… sharper, than the other houses. Aged. Also, none of the other houses have gargoyles so yeah, there’s that too. God _damn._

It was hard not to stare. Though, he definitely shouldn’t because sitting outside someone’s house at 3AM could get him arrested on a good day. And, unlike the dark windows of all the other houses, a few lights were still on in this house. Which was… suspicious, honestly. It was 3AM, why would there be lights on? A shadow moved in front of one of the windows and Robert scratched his chin. Better move along before the suspected becomes suspicious and call the cops. He’d have plenty of time to figure out what was up with the neighbours when he settled back in. Besides, Mary was a trustworthy informant when it came to the cul-de-sac. Kept a stern eye out.

Filing away his curiosity, he cruised along to his own driveway, debating whether or not to unpack his truck while he was awake or just… Wait a second.

Wait a goddamned second.

Where were his flamingoes.

Where the fuck did his flamingoes go?

He KNEW something was off.

The looming dark home beside his almost made him overlook the absence of his two flamingoes from their ever vigilant positions, stalwartly defending the front of his overgrown, unkempt garden. Robert was a man of simple pleasures and the comforting familiarity of those two pink, plastic birds was a constant in his life. Honestly, their absences made him want to yell obscenities into the unforgiving void and find some way to weaponize the Dover Ghost into seeking out whoever was responsible but he settled for grinding his teeth and seething quietly.

Between the loaded truck and overwhelming burden of apparent changes in his life that suddenly weighed him down, he decided he was going to get a few glasses of whiskey and a couple hours of sleep before dealing with this reality anymore. All in all, that sounded like the least offensive and harmless idea he could come up with at this hour. Tired and weary, he gently scooped up Betsy in his arms and went toward his home.

One month huh… Man, things were moving too quick already.

Phone precariously balanced in his left hand, he flew off a few quick texts to Mary to let off some steam before preparing to crash.

Me: my flamingoes  
Me: why  
Me: who did this  
Me: who  
Me: why  
Me: for what reason  
Me: they were innocent  
Me: they did nothing wrong  
Me: someones gonna die tmrw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's literally been ten years since I've written fanfiction, treat me gently please.
> 
> There is a severe lack of Damien/Robert that I feel personally attacked by, so I wanted to see what I could contribute.
> 
> Rating is subject to change. Currently unbeta'd. I hope you enjoy.


	2. Chapter 2

When you own a dog, it tends to mean operating around their piss schedule, no matter what. Meaning, as much as Robert would have liked to sleep longer, Betsy was bouncing about and persistently licking his face awake by 9AM. Groggily, he dragged himself out of his uncomfortable sleeping position on the couch into a sitting position, stretching until his neck cracked.

Ugh. His eyes hurt, his head pounded, and his mouth tasted like ash. Mornings were rough.

Betsy pattered about anxiously, pacing between the screen door that led to the backyard and Robert’s feet.

“Yeah, yeah, just a second,” he rasped, walking toward the kitchen. Quickly, he rinsed his mouth and splashed some water on his face before taking Betsy’s hint and heading toward the door, kicking aside the shirt he’d shrugged off the night before. He grabbed his smokes from his jacket on the way out, Betsy a black and white blur as she bounded into the backyard.

He sat on the wooden steps on his back porch while lighting his smoke, watching as Betsy disappeared into the tall grass. Someone must’ve taken his front yard into their own hands and kept it cut down for the sake of the neighbourhood, because he would’ve noticed if it was anything like the jungle out here. Wild grasses had taken over, there was some kinda vine trying to consume the back corner of the fence, and the more he stared at the old oak, the more he was convinced that there might be a family of racoons living in it. Huh.

He’ll probably have to deal with this thriving ecosystem at some point. For now though, he breathes in sweet pollution while watching Betsy reclaim the backyard as her territory.

Idly, he listens. With the morning well under way, the neighbourhood’s already alive. For all intents and purposes, it was a beautiful day. Even within his sheltered, fenced backyard, he could hear children playing and laughing somewhere nearby, dogs are barking, there’s birds chirping melodically and the sun warmed his face, despite the clouds scattered in the sky… It’s nice…

 _Too_ nice. Robert tenses, eying the surrounding area carefully.

He’s not used to this kinda… serenity, anymore. Sure, sometimes the woods had quiet moments of peace. But he only found those moments of peace early in the morning, watching the sun rise in a sleepless delirium after a 48 hour stake out with a night vision camera. It was more of an artificial peace than anything, really. Exhaustion worked with alcohol in a way that numbed the persistent paranoia to a comforting muffle.

Beyond the fence, Mary’s backyard was a ways off to the left. Couldn’t see much more than the trees in her backyard from where he sat though, due to the fence’s height. Good. While he loved and supported Mary like a dependable, drunken sister, he’d probably go insane if Joseph were able to talk to him over the fence, Home Improvement style.

Lazily, his eyes turn toward the mystery neighbour’s conspicuous abode. Whoever lived in that house before must not have been memorable. Robert knew didn’t come off as the friendliest guy on the block but he made a point to try to remember faces and reactions. Most of the time, he remembered names too, but reactions tended to determine whether it was worth remembering at all. Fear, awe, suspicion, awkwardness – he’s found people’s responses to his tall tales more indicative of their character than vaguely discussing the weather. Reactions stuck in his mind and, honestly, there weren’t a lot that bored him. Gullibility or analytical doubt, watching the way someone absorbed a lie he told stayed with him.

To have no recollection of who ever lived next door before the Addams’ Family: Home Renovation edition came along, Robert must have found them _remarkably_ unremarkable. Boring person plus two years of devoted cryptid hunting and boozing didn’t exactly fare well on Robert’s memory, even if he could recite the bible from front to back.

Despite that, it kinda bugged him that he couldn’t recall _anything._

At least whoever was next door now made an interesting first impression without even having a face. The dark, expensive architecture in such a quiet, domestic cul-de-sac was bold. Proud, unique, but also out of place. A black sheep. Robert could hypothesize all day about what sort of people lived there really, and not all of them were likeable. Though, if he didn’t know that Brian helped plan most of their cul-de-sac, he’d probably be convinced that the house was as antique as its décor implied. It was the sort of place he’d love to explore with a camera and hunt for ghosts and other household cryptids. Stationary hauntings were hit or miss but when they hit, they hit hard and it’s been a few years since he’s felt the thrill of sleeping in a house where mirrors had the tendency to reflect dead children over your own face. Just thinking about it made him want to go to the strange house right then and there and do a stake out.

Y’know… if he wasn’t turning a new page, of course. And if the house was actually as old as it looked. And also if living people didn’t inhabit it. He was sure the neighbours wouldn’t appreciate casual breaking and entering on his first day back in town.

Betsy trots over to him and Robert picks himself up, idly looking for something that could toss the remains of his cigarette into. Usually he’d have an ashtray around, but he must’ve put them away somewhere when he decided to leave for an indeterminately long time. Still, he didn’t wanna risk Betsy being dopey and eating the butt end of a cigarette by tossing it on the ground. He couldn't forgive himself if he let that happen. After a quick look around, he's getting ready to resign himself to taking the butt inside and flushing it down the toilet when he realizes there’s a metal bucket pressed into the corner of the porch. That would work. But... 

Huh?

That. He never had a metal bucket there before. He’s not even sure he’s _ever_ owned a metal bucket.

Eyebrow raised, he approaches the foreign object, using his foot to tip the bucket toward him. Assessing the contents from a safe distance. Oh… Well. This is interesting.

Robert snorts, retracting his foot and tossing his burnt stub into the bucket, where other burnt cigarettes lay. As well as the singed remains of what looked to be joints.

He mentally catalogued the discovery as evidence.

Though... before he got to unpacking his truck, he was definitely gonna do a walk around his house and make sure none of his shit was stolen.

 

* * *

 

 

Thankfully, none of his shit was stolen.

The inside of the house was as untouched as he’d hoped it would be. His living room floor was far more crowded after he unloaded the contents of his truck but eventually everything would find its home. Probably.

It was getting close to evening when he heard the muffled buzz of his phone from where he had abandoned his jacket, spending most of the afternoon moving things and napping. With some hesitance, he picked it up from the floor and checked who the messages were from, letting out a breath. Only Mary.

She’d actually sent a few throughout the day. Whoops, must’ve not heard the others.

Wrathful Wine-o: what are you on  
Wrathful Wine-o: come hang out, joseph is at the church and the kids are at school  
Wrathful Wine-o: come and meet dames  
Wrathful Wine-o: i see how it is rob, i see how it is  
Wrathful Wino-o: were on for jim n kims though? dont leave me hanging loser

The messages were sent out a few hours apart, the last being the most recent. Whoops.

Me: just found my phone  
Me: been committing crimes  
Me: ill see ya soon  
Me: what kinda dames did i miss out on

He probably would’ve gone over if he caught the message. Not like he was doing much. He set his phone down to search for something somewhat clean to wear. The washing machine was gonna get a work out whenever he got around to tossing everything in there. Another thing on the ever growing to-do list. Trying to be civilized was already stressing him out and he hadn’t even left the house.

After a quick shower and rummage through his belongings to find his sunglasses, he checked his phone again.

Wrathful Wine-o: my special boy Damien, that dames  
Wrathful Wine-o: we go waaaaaay back, hes your neighbour  
Wrathful Wine-o: moved in a few months back

Huh. So his neighbour was named Damien. If Mary likes him, he can’t be all bad. Can’t be all good either.

Perfect company, really.

Robert poured Betsy some chow before leaving for Jim n Kim’s. Again, the feeling of distorted nostalgia settled over him as he walked down the streets. Everything was familiar but ever so slightly different. The Coffee Spoon got a new logo and old store fronts had new paint jobs. Some new flowers were planted on that corner and a tree was cut down over there. It looked there was actually some construction going on down the road too. Hopefully the area wouldn’t get too crowded.

Thankfully though, the front of Jim n Kim’s looked as much of a dive as it always had. The sight made Robert smirk before he walked in, scanning the bar for familiar faces.

Neil gave him a wave as he entered and he nodded in response. Good ol’ Neil. Mary sat at the corner of the bar with a glass of wine and appeared to have her teeth in some poor schmuck already…

A really well-dressed schmuck? Like… _weirdly_ well dressed. He looked like he walked right out of the cover of an old, classy romance novel. His refined style was a stark contrast against the dingy bar, and just the fact that he was sipping the same wine as Mary made him look that much more expensive. And, now that Robert was looking more closely… Mary didn’t really have her predator face on. She even smiled at something he said?

Warily, he walked over. When she noticed him, Mary said something to the finely dressed man, who then looked his way curiously. His eyes are… alluring…

Alarms are going off in his head. He diverts his gaze toward Mary, who pats the stool beside her with a smirk.

“Long time no see, sailor,” she greets, raising her glass.

“Apparently too long,” he replies, tone playful but cautious, taking his seat. “Your tastes in prey have matured since I last saw you.”

“Hah, you wish. Besides, Dames is more of a predator than I am, aren’t you?” She casts a teasing glance toward the well-dressed man beside them, who sputters slightly but recovers, settling into a pout.

“My dear, I’m but a gentle herbivore,” he admonishes, looking a little embarrassed. “You’re far too humble if you’re claiming to be any less than the apex predator.” The way he speaks is as refined as he looks, even being caught off guard.

“You always know what to say, Dames.” Mary sips her wine, and then gestures toward Robert. “Damien, this Robert. Robert, Damien.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Robert,” Damien says with a gracious smile. The sincerity takes him back for a moment but Robert puts on a friendly face.

“Same to you.” Robert signals to Neil, who knows his usual and, after a moment, brings over a glass of whiskey. Damien seems to perk up as he takes a sip.

“Did you know that, though whiskey is a Scottish tradition, Queen Victoria was quite the whiskey aficionado? She practically popularised the drink in Victorian England.” Robert raises an eyebrow and swirls the drink in his hand thoughtfully.

“Well… Long live the queen,” he states before downing the glass, enjoying the warmth that spreads from his core. Damien seemed happy with the response, sipping his own wine.

“Classy gal, ol’ Victoria,” Mary adds while Robert signals Neil again. “So what made you come back around, Robert? And you’re actually sticking around this time too? That’s a change.”

As Neil takes his glass to refill, Robert puts on a pensive expression. “I’m not sure. I think… A man can flirt with death a limited number of times before the spark is gone, y’know?” Neil places a full glass in front of him before going over to another customer. “You either beg her to stop being such a tease and just take you or move on to something else until she finally thinks you’re worthy of her.”

“Lady Fate is a fickle mistress, indeed.” Robert was surprised to hear Damien’s sober addition to his melodramatic answer but didn’t let it faze him, continuing.

“She truly is.” He downs his drink again, sighing. “I crossed her path many times in those woods over the last few years. A couple weeks ago though, something was different…” He stares into the empty glass. “Heard some rumours from a few campers... about a cave.”

Already, he sees Mary roll her eyes in his peripheral, but Damien doesn’t appear to notice, trained on Robert. Though, Robert can’t really tell what he’s thinking. Even though he’s attentive, his expression is almost unreadable. Slightly aloof, yet he doesn’t look bored or suspicious. Regardless, Robert continued.

“Supposedly, nobody who had entered the cave came back out. ‘Course, I’m a skeptic. You can’t tell me something like that and expect me to just take it to heart. Gotta find out for myself. I take a map, a flashlight, some food, and head out on a hike to where the cave supposedly was. Not to mention some self defense, of course. Never leave home without a knife or three." He says it matter of factly, ignoring but not missing the apprehension that passes over Damien's features. "Now, here’s the thing; you hear the word cave and imagine something like this, right?” He tips his empty glass onto its side in demonstration. “Like an opening in the side of a mountain? A mountain mouth. Or, hah, well-”

"Yes Robert, you have correctly defined what a cave is," Mary interjects, unenthusiastically.

“Thing is, there’s no mountains in these woods. There’s a slight incline in certain places and rough terrain every so often but no real cliff faces or waterfalls. Need a mountain to have a cave, right? And what do I find when I get to the place they were talking about? Not a single. Fucking. Mountain. However.” He tips the glass back up, making an audible clink. “There _is_ a cave. I damn near fell into the thing. There’s this massive pit in the ground. Bottomless. I toss a rock in and the darkness just swallows it without a sound.”

“I was ready for some spelunking but not serious rock climbing. Honestly, it’d make sense if people fell in, why they wouldn’t come back. I was gonna chalk it up to that and walk away, wholly dissatisfied." He let his face drop and gave a haunted edge to his tone. "But that’s when I heard them…” Hah, even Mary was invested in his story. It always spoke volumes when Mary paid attention, knowing him like she does. Reassured him that, even if he was rusty, he was still pretty decent at improv.

“Yes?” Damien prodded, almost causing Robert to break into a grin and break character. But he’s got a professional poker face. He keeps a stony visage as he proceeds.

“Voices. Dozens of ‘em. Speaking over one another. Calling to me.” Robert leaned toward the other two, eyes intense. “Luring me. Seducing me. They said such sweet words, I didn’t even realize I was leaning over the edge. They might’ve gotten me, if it weren’t for that one voice. Floating above all the others. She told me, whatever you do… Don’t. Fall. Asleep.” And Mary was back to rolling her eyes, taking a swig of her wine. Damien, however, still seemed to be entranced by the story. Not a Nightmare on Elm Street kinda guy? Though, just the one line was pretty obscure. Might be time to step it up a notch.

“Something about that snapped me to my senses, made me turn and run. Left my map, my flashlight, everything I’d packed by that chasm. Haven’t slept right since.” He runs a hand over his face and through his hair messily. “Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I’m being chased. There’s a man. His face is… all wrong. And it’s not just the burns, it’s his expression. Like… he revels in my torment. I feel like, if he gets me, something horrible will happen…”

“Did he tell you he was your boyfriend now, Nancy?” Mary quips, arms crossed and looking to put an end to Robert’s bullshit. Instead, he looks at her wide eyed, face grave and hopeless.

“How did you know? Don’t tell me- no… Not you too.” At this point, his character’s breaking and Mary’s letting out an exasperated sigh. Damien went from looking thoroughly engrossed to confused.

“I can’t believe I was actually buying into your roundabout existential revelation, until you pulled 80s pop culture out of your ass.” Mary finished her glass. “Low brow, Smalls.”

“I’m hurt, I’m literally being haunted by a supernatural phenomena and you think I’m joking around?” He looks toward Damien pointedly. “ _This_ is why I drink.” The finely dressed man seemed less confused than before, like he had realized something and it made the pieces fit together.

“Mary did mention you were quite the storyteller,” Damien smiles. “Quite a remarkable one really. I’d like to consider myself rather good at sensing deceit yet I couldn’t feel an ounce of insincerity while you were talking. For a while, at least.”

Another alarm went off in Robert’s head. He filed it away and composed himself.

“Every story has a grain of truth,” he replied coolly.

“Except _your_ stories,” Mary retorted, casting Damien a sidelong glance. “Trust me, Dames, nothing that comes out of Robert’s face is exactly as it seems. The longer you know ‘im, the easier it is to tell. He gets in so deep sometimes, he convinces himself that it actually happened.” Mary sighs, resting her chin in her hand and playing with her empty glass. "We'll have to completely rewire that brain so you remember what's real and what isn't. Spending all that time alone in the woods can _not_ be good for you."

“Ouch, jeez Mary, here I thought you were on my side.” Robert spoke with mock hurt. Still, it was kinda surprising that Mary was being so frank.

"I _am_ on your side. I'm protecting you from yourself. As much as I care to, anyway."

"I don't _need_ to be protected from myself, thanks."

She stared at him, deadpan.

“Robert, don’t take it personally, but one time, you left me a message at 4am saying Mothman sucked your dick behind a Domino’s. You were sobbing until the timer ran out.” Now it was his turn to stare at her, deadpan.

“First of all, Mothman’s bullshit, you _know_ how I feel about that!” Mary smirked as he slapped his hands on the table. “Secondly, it was a wendigo behind a Chipotle’s. If you’re going to mock me, at _least_ get the details right.” The statement hangs in the air for a moment until Mary leans toward Damien.

“See? In so deep, he’s practically drowning,” she whispers, loudly. Damien tilts his head curiously, staring at Robert. It was difficult not to fidget under the unexpectedly intense gaze.

“There are certainly a number of unknown things about our world, beyond the realm of our understanding,” Damien responds, giving a gentle smile. “Many would write such occurrences off as hoax or imagination without a second thought, no matter what sort of evidence was provided. It must truly be a lonely reality, to have many collectively deny you even exist. It’s rather inspiring, really, for you to give them an appreciation and devotion.” Robert blinked, scanning Damien’s face. The finely dressed man seemed nothing but honest. Impressed even.

Robert was speechless.

“Although,” Damien continued, eyebrows drawing together in concern. “I do hope you went to a clinic after having a, uh, wendigo so… Let’s say, up-close-and-personal, to such a sensitive area.” Robert couldn’t help the barked laugh that escaped him.

“You’re a precious one, Damien,” Robert chuckled. Damien seemed to blush at the remark. “How’d you and Mary meet? Don’t get me wrong but…” Robert side eyes Mary. “Well, you guys are pretty different.” Somewhere in between the conversation, her wine glass had been refilled and, apparently, his whiskey has too. He wasn’t complaining. However, Damien was still on his first glass, by the looks of it. It barely looked touched, as a matter of fact.

Suspicious.

“Dames is my weed dealer,” Mary answered. Damien choked.

“M-Mary!”

“Alright, that’s a lie. His son’s my weed dealer.”

A pause.

“… Mary… That’s a lie too… right?” Damien prods warily. Mary smiles mysteriously and takes a _long_ sip of her wine. Robert giggles.

“We met in high school,” Damien answers after a minute of silence, eying Mary. She’s still drinking. He sighs, defeated and looks at Robert. “Both of us partook of the Gothic lifestyle. Though, Mary followed a more contemporary approach while I adhered to a Victorian aesthetic. Still, it was so rare to find a fellow Goth that we ended spending a lot of time together and kept in contact despite going our separate ways in the years that followed.” Wine glass now empty, Mary seems a little more… bubbly. For the first time, Robert wondered how many drinks she might’ve had before he arrived.

“About last year, Dames is talking about moving, ‘cause I send him letters and care packages so I need to know his address,” she says. “I may or may not have tried to steal your house so he could live next door. Surprise surprise though! The guys next to you wanted to move to the next city over. I worked some magic. And here he is.”

“Convenient,” Robert acknowledges, sipping his whiskey. “So, Mary… you had a Goth phase?”

About an hour passes. Conversation is light. Drinks are drunk. Well… mostly. Robert can’t help but noticed Damien’s drink hasn’t changed level. He walked in suspicious and, though he's been enjoying Damien’s company, he didn’t know what to make of the observation. He watches carefully every time Damien lifts the beverage. Every time, it looks as though he’s actually drinking, right down to the contracting muscles of his pale throat. Yet, he’s not had his drink refilled once.

At least… Robert’s pretty sure it hasn’t. He may have knocked a few back, but he’d have noticed Neil refilling Damien’s glass… right?

Suddenly though, Damien was standing.

“Well my friends, this has been a lovely evening, but I must bid you adieu,” he says, gracefully brushing any dust off his vest. “I have a commission that I must finish on the morrow if I want it to ship in time.” Robert downs the rest of his drink. He's on a mission.

“Wait a sec, I’m heading out too,” he replies, pulling out his wallet.

“O-Oh, certainly. Ah, Mary, are you coming along too then?” Damien asks, concern colouring the question. She snorts.

“The night is young and so are the men,” she answers, lifting her glass. “You nerds are missing out.”

“If you’re sure…” Robert was a little surprised at Damien’s reluctance to leave Mary. Didn’t he _know_ her? “Just remember, I always have my phone nearby if you need me.”

"You're a sweetie, Dames." Mary rolls her eyes but her small smile says she's grateful.

Robert quietly watches the exchange while placing the bills under his glass. Damien smiles at him, leading the way toward the exit. Robert’s about to follow after the sway of his cloak when he’s suddenly tugged back. Mary’s holding him by the back of his jacket, looking shockingly sober as she fixes him with a stern glare.

“ _Don’t_ do what I think you’re about to do, Robert,” she warns, voice low.

“What exactly am I about to do?” he teases. However, Mary’s glare doesn’t soften and he feels like kicking himself for not reading the atmosphere more closely. She does let go of his shirt and leans back, now that she has his attention.

“Whatever you do, just... don’t hurt him.” She’s taken hold of her wine glass, sipping it. “If you hurt him, you’ll be making an enemy of me. You don’t want that, Smalls. Hell, _I_ don’t want that.”

A pause passes between them.

"Just... think _before_ you act, for once in your life... For _our_ sake." Robert stares at her. In that moment, he thinks of Marilyn. Finding him somewhere after a long night of drinking. She cares for him, she helps ease the nausea and the pounding in his skull. When he can think without it hurting again, she asks him to get help, offers help, holds his hand and tells him how much his drinking hurts her. How he should cut back, for their sake.

He remembers this, because Mary is speaking with the same expression as Marilyn. Resignation. Anticipating what a disappointment he was going to be. No hope that this time would be different than any other.

“I’ll… keep that in mind, Mary,” Robert finally answers. Apparently, it’s not the answer Mary was looking for, as she frowns and doesn't respond, turning away wordlessly. Back to her wine.

It’s only after Robert’s passed through the doors of the bar that he realizes it wasn’t her wine. It was Damien’s.

“Ah, there you are Robert,” Damien greets as he emerges into the night air. “I wasn’t sure whether you were behind me or not.”

Robert nods, patting his jacket pockets until he finds his cigarettes.

“Mind if I smoke?” he asks, already tapping one out of the carton.

“Oh, go right ahead,” Damien acquiesces. The cul-de-sac isn’t far but Mary’s warning had kinda freaked him out. Still... Robert wasn't easily changed.

Honestly, he probably _was_ gonna ask Damien if he wanted to fuck.

Even though he had other… suspicions and motives for walking home with him, he wasn’t one to meet a handsome man and pass up the chance at some wild, meaningless nights. And Damien was god _damned_ handsome.

Besides, it really had been _too long_ since he last got laid.

“I wonder if it’s going to rain tomorrow,” Damien says aloud, looking toward the overcast skies. Robert grunts in reply and they turn the corner, their houses in sight.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you Robert,” Damien continues. “I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, Mary can be quite vague when she wants to be.” He pouts. “Her stories were rather nerve-wracking, to be quite honest. Said you were gone all the time because you were following a, ah, lifelong vendetta to kill your father’s murderer, or that you were a deep web hitman, whatever that means.” Robert snorts.

“Love Mary, gotta thank her for that later,” he responds. Damien smiles and stops. Robert realizes they’re in front of the dark, looming Victorian home.

“I do hope that we can keep in touch,” Damien states. “Perhaps I can add you on DadBook?”

Robert nodded and stared as Damien stood before him, the looming Gothic architecture framing him. The gargoyles look like they’re greeting the return of their master and Robert feels like he’s looking at little too hard at Damien’s mouth when he talks. He thinks about the lights in the house late at night yesterday and how naturally alluring Damien is and the undrunk wine and maybe he shouldn’t have followed Damien without thinking this through a bit more. Really though, he only wanted to check his cryptid fuelled suspicions until Mary started giving him warnings and threats and got the thought about sex in his head ‘cause wow, that was _really_ appealing too.

Mary’s words float though his head. Not her subtle threats but what she had teased, about Damien being a predator. The whiskey’s buzzing in his skull and he doesn’t really want to say what he says but it slips out of his face regardless.

“Robert? Are you alr-"

“Do ya wanna vampire?”

Shit.

Damien blinks before smiling politely. Confused. “I’m sorry?”

“Uh…”

 _Shit._ Robert had been deliberating between two extremely important queries. _Do ya wanna come over?_ The question had a chance at destroying his companionship with Mary but would satisfy his desperate need for instant satisfaction, as well as act as a welcome distraction from reality and responsibility,at least for the one night. Provided Damien say yes. But then there was the other question on his mind.

_Are you a vampire?_

To be fair, you probably shouldn’t ask a vampire if they’re a vampire but Robert wasn’t exactly known for his tact. He’d gone through his mental checklist. There were signs and he wanted to know for sure. Not that he expected Damien to answer, but he could read his reaction. Sure, he’d probably still work at his own methods of confirmation, no matter the answer Damien gave, but it’d send him on the right track. He wouldn’t be a _true_ cryptid hunter if he took Damien’s words at face value. Things just didn’t work that way.

And Damien was pretty tame, compared to the other cryptids he’s come across. Intelligent, aware. Robert didn’t feel any danger asking such a direct question. Yes or no, it’d give him a new insight, a place to work from…

Y’know, if he hadn’t just asked _do ya waNNA VAMPIRE._

“Y’know… like, _are_ you?” Robert amended.

“Am I wanna vampire?” Damien joked, face breaking into a grin. Robert stares at his teeth again before shaking his head, sighing. Damien snickers. “My apologies, dear Robert. I don’t mean to poke fun, though I’m sure we’ve both had a _little_ too much to drink tonight.”

Robert _knows_ that’s a lie. He paid _very_ close attention to that wine glass.

“Let us both retire to our homes and meet again with clearer minds, yes?” Damien makes a gracious bow. “It has truly been a delight to have your company tonight. Do make it home safely.” With that, he departs, casting another glance toward Robert and waving before the door shuts behind him.

And Robert’s alone once more.

Hazily, he wanders over to his house. Like a zombie, he enters the front door, shrugs off his jacket and falls back onto the couch. He feels a little… excited.

Damien never answered or asked him to clarify his question. Didn’t wonder about the word vampire coming up. Didn’t acknowledge it. Completely dodged the question and smoothed it over. Robert's smiling.

Something’s _extremely_ fishy about that. More so than any other answer, one way or another.

Nothing to see here. Move along. That phrase meant _gold_ when looking for cryptids.

Robert shoots up and digs through the bags he’s yet to unpack with his equipment. He's grinning, searching for… Ah, there it is! A tattered journal. He flips through, rushed notes and crude drawings of deformed creatures blurring into one another until he comes to a blank page. On the left side is a continued entry, observations on the furry monstrosity that left dead birds on his doorstep and massive three clawed footprints at the cottage.

He rummaged through the bag’s pockets for a pencil. All he could find was a pen. It’d have to do.

Steadying his hand, he starts to write, letting the drunken stream of consciousness take over his hand as he did so:

 ~~Damea~~ Dami ~~an~~ en?  
Possible vampire/immortal  
\- Victorian house, clothes, speech, etc. (130 ish yrs???)  
\- Pale  
\- Didn’t drink the wine !! (observe food intake)  
\- “predator”  
\- Night owl (no daytime activity yet to report)  
\- Sharp tooth  
\- intelligent and charming and sexy (manipulation? Mind control??)  
\- cape

After getting his thoughts onto the paper, Robert continued to lay on the floor, limbs heavy.

He should probably eat. He should probably clean up. Should probably brush his teeth. Should probably lock the door. Actually, did he even _close_ the door? 

Rather than do any of those, he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the beginning's out of the way, writing should hopefully be easier.
> 
> Thank you for the really nice comments! I hope you continue to enjoy this mess. Critique is always appreciated and note that this is still unbeta'd. Hope you have a nice day!
> 
> (I think my end notes are glitched. That's... fun.)


	3. Chapter 3

Robert didn’t leave his home for almost two days, discounting when he went into the backyard with Betsy. The only reason he went out on the second day was because he ran out of coffee.

What did he occupy himself with during those two days? Survey mission.

He’d made something of a nest out on the second floor balcony. Moved his sheets, pillows, and clothes out there, pushed aside the couple of chairs and table and set up a make shift scouting tower. When hunting cryptids, the best first step to take is observation. He didn’t follow this as a strict rule though.

Sometimes, the best first step is to punch Sasquatch in the face and steal his car. But there’s a time and a place for everything.

Here, he was presented with a wonderful opportunity. Sure, his neighbour may or may not be a vampire that could suck out his life force in his sleep. However, he _was_ his neighbour. If he set aside a few days to keep an eye on his activity, he’d have a better understanding for the next time he initiated contact. And he had already made some significant observations.

For example. Damien was definitely nocturnal. Whatever he did, he always seemed to have lights on in the house and Robert would see movement right up until six in the morning. And even then, Robert realized the reason he couldn’t see inside the house at six was because Damien had gone into his backyard and started watering his garden. The guy had the greenest thumb Robert had ever seen; looking between the overgrown wasteland of his own backyard and the lush, colourful flora of Damien’s was an exercise in humility. Not that he was much of a gardener in the first place but even he knew that his neighbour was no amateur.

Taking care of the garden took Damien about half an hour. Robert noted with great interest that he was back inside before the sun had gained much height. Very suspicious.

After tending to the garden, the school bus that circled the cul-de-sac on the week days stopped in front of Damien’s home. Hearing the telling low rumble of the bus engine, Robert had to duck back inside to one of the second floor windows to actually catch sight of Damien’s teenage son boarding the bus. Silver hair with shaved sides and a moody stalking gait, the kid’s demeanour starkly contrasted with his expectations as the child of Damien’s polite manners and good posture.

Then again, teenagers are unpredictable creatures. Regardless of whether they were human or vampire.

Whenever Damien ventured out during the day, he always carried a dark, ornate umbrella at his side. It was cloudy one day so Robert didn’t think much of it but on the second day, the sun was shining and the umbrella was open as he departed the house. Robert could just imagine the excuses if he asked.

“Oh? My umbrella? Ah, you see, my skin is quite sensitive to the sun. Always has been. See how pale it is? I’d quite literally burn up without some cover!”

A coy smile, like a little inside joke. An assumption at Robert’s ignorance as the wordplay flies right over his head. But he’s onto you, Damien, don’t feel comfortable teasing him. The idea of being taunted with words, as though he wasn’t suspicious already, made Robert bristle. It was a fucking Looney Toons skit waiting to happen and Robert was going to be on the short end of the joke, whistling as he fell into a waiting chasm with an anvil chasing after him.

Though, he had to wonder… It was easy to get upset at imagined conversations. Last night, Damien was very suspicious in his actions, as Robert saw him, but he was also very… cordial. Nice. Gentlemanly.

Everything Robert wasn’t.

His mind turned over the memory of how genuine the other man was, listening to Robert’s stories with rapt attention and providing polite, eloquent responses. He thought about Mary, protective and casual with the other man, trusting him. Telling him things Robert knew she wouldn’t let other people in on so easily, making sure he wasn’t laughed at as part of the joke but laughing with them, aware. And even when lost, Damien took it in stride with a smile and found himself in other parts of the conversation. Overall, Damien had made a good first impression on him. Robert wanted to believe he was as friendly as he appeared.

But things don’t just work like that, do they? Friendliness, kindness, gentleness. Beautiful tools to make one malleable. Pretty words always hurt the most. He’d fallen for it once before and it nearly ruined him.

He’d be damned before letting that happen again. Assuming he wasn’t damned already.

It was past noon and he was out of coffee.

The surreal familiarity of Maple Bay was starting to settle in Robert’s mind as he made his way toward town, running his tongue over his teeth. He forgot to brush them. Not that it would matter when he drank his coffee but the realization made him feel itchy. Did he even look in a mirror before heading out? He couldn’t recall.

Shoving his sunglasses onto his face, he keeps an even pace as he approaches the Coffee Spoon. He enters the shop and a twinkling bell announces his arrival to the man behind the counter, looking over his shoulder from where he had been refilling a machine. Another familiar face to Robert. The man doesn’t appear to recognize Robert though, a small customer-service practiced smile gracing his lips.

“Hey man, welcome to the Coffee Spoon. I’ll be with you in just a sec.” The sound of his soft, deep voice lights up a neuron in Robert’s memory. Mat, that was his name. Soft spoken, loved music; a down to earth dude. Also pretty awkward. Never a nervous, high-energy, paranoid awkward though. It was a calm and creeping awkward, fuelled by self-doubt and uncertainty.

Robert waited patiently as Mat flipped the lid back down and the machine whirred. Satisfied, he turned toward the counter and smiled apologetically.

“Sorry about that. The machine gets a little temperamental every few weeks,” he explained, tone thoughtful. Like he was more talking to himself than to Robert. “I should probably replace it sometime soon... Or have someone look at it.”

“I can recommend an exorcist, if you need one,” Robert offered, tilting his head. Mat blinked, caught off guard.

“Huh? What do you mean?” he asked.

“Mm, I mean, I’m no expert-” what a lie “-but in my unprofessional opinion, you’re dealing with a Class 1 haunting.” Robert shrugged. “It’s not hostile or anything to really worry about, but it will cause minor annoyances every now and then. Used to have a Class 1 myself. Never been able to trust a vacuum cleaner since.” Behind the counter, Mat seemed lost in thought, staring at Robert. Processing the words into meaning. Then, recognition lit up on his face.

“Robert Smalls? Whoa man, I almost didn’t recognize you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around,” Mat said, smiling. Robert let out a huff of a laugh.

“Been a minute or two, yeah.” After a beat, a stoic and serious expression took over his features. “I was serious about the haunted coffee machine though, you should probably clean it with purifying salt. Should expel whatever’s in there.”

“It has been a while since I gave it a really thorough clean. I’ll keep your advice in mind,” Mat chuckled light heartedly, though the subtle glance he gave the machine behind him betrayed his anxiety. Still, he smiled politely. “Anything I can get you?”

“I mean, the ghost coffee seems like a limited time deal so I’ll have that. Black, please.” Once upon a time, Robert had some toast from a haunted toaster. Or maybe it was just the house was haunted. In any case, the ghost toast with jam was pretty good. Weirdly smoky, even though it was toasted to a perfect golden brown. Might as well see if ghosts had some innate flavour to them, since the opportunity was there.

“Gotcha. One, uh…” Mat paused, a tense look of concentration in his brow. “Espectre? Like, espresso and spectre? Because… ghost.”

“Hmm, kinda weak,” Robert responded, frowning slightly. “And not really running along with your theme.” He makes a pointed glance up toward the menu, where the names of the coffees all correlated with different bands. Robert doesn’t recognize a lot of them. They were a lot more modern than he was familiar with.

“Ah, true...” Mat had turned, starting to make the coffee. The air hung between them, the sounds of bubbling machines and a quiet indie song staving off the awkward lull of the conversation while the coffee was poured.

“There you go. Enjoy.” The coffee was placed in front of Robert, steaming. The aroma alone made him feel more alert as he took out his wallet.

“Thank you. Could I also get a bag of grinds too?”

“No problem, my guy.” Mat tapped it into the register before grabbing the bag and settling it beside the cup. Robert handed over the bills before heading over to a table in the corner. Really, he could just head back to the cul-de-sac and launch into surveillance again but getting out of the house for a bit was probably a good idea. Besides, Damien probably wasn’t gonna be home for a few hours, if he was consistent with yesterday’s pattern. No sense watching an empty house.

As his coffee steamed, Robert pulled out the tattered notebook of cryptid observations from inside his jacket, flipping to the newly dog-eared section that began Damien’s pages. The pages had slowly begun to compile, decorated with scribbles of teeth and amateur portraits and incomprehensible notes quickly jotted down. With a paranoid glance over his shoulder, Robert flipped to a blank page before taking a sip of his drink. Perfectly brewed.

Not for the first time, a wave of self-doubt came over him. What if Damien wasn’t a vampire? What if he wasn’t any kind of cryptid at all and Robert was just seeking patterns and evidence based on what he believed? It was a phenomenon he often deliberated over when it came to the unknown…

Confirmation bias.

Only searching for evidence that supported one’s own position. Someone sees a creature in the woods and immediately wants to yell Bigfoot. Doesn’t matter the noises, the size, the location; if they’re looking for Bigfoot, then that must be Bigfoot that they saw. Paranormal skeptics and investigators have gotten better at considering methods of debunking hoaxes and exploring all possibilities. But it was an easy, hopeful trap to fall into.

If Damien wasn’t a vampire, Robert was stalking a human. That… was bad.

But Robert was careful and experienced when it came to the paranormal. Everything he noted seemed to pertain to his suspicions, his gut feeling. Though, it was all hypothetical at this point. Carrying umbrellas in the sun, never appearing to sleep, Victorian mannerisms and aesthetic preferences – none of it necessarily meant vampire, might just be a very eclectic human. None of it was conclusive in any way and Robert wasn’t sure there was too much that could be observed from his balcony. There were two courses of action that he could take next though; first possibility was following Damien outside of his home, which would definitely prove problematic if he were human.

Hell, even if he wasn’t human, it was hard to justify unless he was evil. Which was also still a possibility but Robert had no evidence to support that. Yet.

Which left the second course of action. He’d have to initiate contact again.

Broodily, he took another sip of his coffee and the tinkling of the bell announced the entrance of another patron. Glancing over slowly, Robert didn’t recognize them at all, completely new faces; a father and his teenage daughter, it seemed. They found a place on some couches on the other side of the room as Mat brought over their drinks and some banana bread. The daughter teased and laughed at her dad’s nervous responses to the other man, supported him where his conversation fell slightly. Robert couldn’t help staring, feeling disconnected from his body as he observed the happy scene.

Val hadn’t responded to him yet. She might not at all, considering all the details were already mentioned in his text and hers. That was fine.

But seeing how close that father and daughter were had made something in him ache. He didn’t want to think about it. A month. There was no fucking point in thinking about what could be different when the damage was already done. Just one month. What would they even say to each other? How disappointed would she be in him? If only he could change the past, not take what he had for granted, if he could just…

But he can’t. Yet he can’t stop staring at the happy father and daughter. At what never was.

It hurts but he keeps staring because he deserves to hurt.

It was only when the other dad caught his stare – looking increasingly intimidated the longer Robert maintained eye contact because Robert knew you’d just look guilty if you immediately diverted your gaze, gotta treat unexpected eye contact like a staring contest, a battle of wills, a test of resolve, until it gets way too intimate and weird – that he finally, slowly looked away. Back toward the coffee and empty notebook page.

He felt… too sober.

Tonight, he’d go to the bar and fix that. Maybe he could kill two birds with one stone and invite Damien along, get more insight. Though, that was a pretty bold move, unless Mary invited him. But if he asked Mary to invite Damien for him, she’d probably file the action away as ammunition for a later date and she already had too much to use against Robert. However, it might be a good idea to just talk to Mary about Damien. After all, despite his lacking willpower, he hadn’t done anything that would put him out of her favour. On the other hand, she might take his mere interest as ammunition too, unless he played his cards right.

Well, if Robert were to gamble on anything, it’d be his poker face. He could be subtle and sly, extract whatever knowledge Mary was privy to before confronting Damien again. They had known each other for a long time. With a little finesse, he could determine if Damien seemed to age at all, if he ever went somewhere with a lot of sun like the beach or an island vacation, or he could even figure out if Damien had an aversion to religious symbols and objects. Considering Mary’s home was the lair of Captain Virtue himself, maybe a good way to lead into query would be to ask where she and Damien usually hangout. 

Yeah, he could do this. The silver tongue was versatile. It could spin tales and lies, but it could also quietly coax without suspicion. With the right phrasing, he’d be on his way to figuring out the secrets of Maple Bay’s hottest cryptid before he even knew what hit him.

* * *

 

“So is Damien a vampire?”

“… It’s common courtesy to share whatever drugs you’re on with your friends, y’know.”

The bar was lively tonight but not overcrowded. The game was on so most of the crowd was looking toward the few televisions displays, muttering curses and cheers intermittently. Neil busily walked the length of his bar, going from patron to patron and stopping every once in a while for idle chatter. Robert hadn’t contacted Mary or Damien, but stumbled upon Mary when he chose to go to the Jim ‘n Kim’s. Or more accurately, Mary had stumbled into him.

She was a sturdy drunk though, so Robert wasn’t too surprised when she mocked his inquiry.

“It’s also common courtesy to mention whether your buddy’s diet is human or not,” Robert shot back. Mary rolled her eyes.

“Damien isn’t a cannibal, I’ll tell you that.”

“…” That phrasing literally meant nothing if he wasn’t human. It’s not cannibalism if you aren’t the same species. Robert glares suspiciously.

“What’s with the questions? Did my boy attack you or something?” Mary questioned. With a sudden movement, she grasped the lapel of Robert’s jacket before he could react, shifting it out of the way slightly and examining the hidden side of his neck with a lazy glare. “No hickeys or bites.” She let the leather fall back into place. “Did ya catch him eating someone or something?”

“Of course,” Robert lied, whispering conspiratorially. Well, if he actually saw Damien attack someone, he wouldn’t need to interrogate Mary, but if she was gonna set something up that he could run with… “Why else would I be asking?”

“Hmm?” Mary tilted her head, lips quirked in amusement. “Damn, Damien’s getting wild and not telling me? That’s funny.”

“Are you gonna answer the question, Mary?”

“Rob, you’re nuts, yknow?” she giggles. “And I like that about you. There’s no predicting anything but your unpredictability.” Mary swishes her wine in his glass, appraising it. “Which is why I’m surprised, that you’re like-” her voice drops into a mocking caricature of Robert’s throaty tone “oooh, the man in the spooky house and the flowy hair and fancy clothes MUST be a vampire!” She clears her throat while Robert glares before smirking at him. “Like, really Smalls? This is a teen romance novel with the most obvious twist at the end. Dames ain’t a vampire, you just want him to be.”

“If it’s a twist about backwards appearances, then I know who the _real_ vampire is in this town,” Robert mutters under his breath, hiding an indignant frown behind his glass as he sipped. Mary shoots him a pointed, icy glare before diverting her own gaze, the silence heavy between them. Fuck. He went too far.

“Mary, I didn’t mean-”

“No, you did,” she sighs. “Forget it. I’m a big girl, I can deal. This helps.” She finishes the glass she’d been nursing in a dramatic gulp and directs a humourless smile at Robert. “Now I’ve got a lure. See if any of these losers have the heart to buy a lonely gal a drink.” With the determination of a warrior, she rose from her stool but gave Robert one more look, sighing at whatever she saw there. “I’m really not mad Rob. It’s water under the bridge. But let’s keep it that way, alright?” Solemnly, Robert nods, ready to kill this discussion now and forever and Mary seems to be on the same page as him.

“As for your other questions, I honestly have no clue if you’re being serious or not ‘cause it’s you,” Mary deadpanned. “I’m telling ya no, but what the fuck do I know. If you have a weird boner over him, start with talking to him like a normal person. He’s a sweetheart, won’t bite at all.” With an ironic smile at Robert’s unamused expression, she departed and began to make her rounds. Left alone with his thoughts, Robert sighed a frustrated breath.

Water under the bridge. Why’d he have to be neighbours with that water though? That polluted, scummy water. No one else bats an eyelash about it, of course. Fucking clean cut, friendly neighbourhood pastor. Squeaky clean to everyone else.

Joseph was like toothpaste. Brush your teeth like you go to church, spit in the sink and leave after the service, and toothpaste can’t hurt you.

Swallow it and you get to find out how toxic that squeaky clean tube of fluoride you use every day really is.

Running his teeth over his tongue, he felt self-hatred swell up in his chest. Before it got too far up into his throat, he downed his drink to suffocate it.

* * *

 

The rest of the night was an exercise in numb, disconnected self-loathing. Watching the game, running into a pretty guy with an awkward smile and sharing a drink, trying to sleep with said pretty dude and getting shot down. Drinking the rest of the evening away at home until his head hit the soft cushion of unlaundered clothes and Betsy snuggled against his side. It was probably for the best that the guy said no, seemed like he was occupying that sold house in the sae cul-de-sac. Robert didn’t seem to have much luck when it came to following the old love thy neighbour rule, whether he was successful or not. Still, it stung to get turned down twice in one week… but he couldn’t really blame anyone but himself.

When he woke up to Betsy licking his face, he just wanted to go back to sleep. It didn’t matter what time it was or what kinda cryptid things Damien was up to or whether Val was going to text him back or even if the Dover Ghost had rifled through his sock drawer. He felt burnt out and heavy. Too hazy and too overwhelmed.

Of course, Betsy didn’t care, she was a dog and had to piss so eventually Robert was coerced by her insistent hovering and licking and whimpers into getting to his feet and unleashing her into the backyard. In a way, he appreciated it. His dog’s need for consistency forced him out of slumps more often than not. Some days, the monster inside him regretted keeping her around, whispered that he could just sleep the days away if he didn’t have to care for this living creature. Hell, he could barely take care of himself. But on lucid days, he gave her as much affection as he could muster to compensate for the guilt that settled in his stomach for those unwanted thoughts.

It was probably around noon when his phone buzzed in his back pocket, giving him a slight jolt while sitting on the back porch. Texts had started to become a dread inducing event. Slowly, he pulled the device out of his back pocket, placing his coffee on the step beside him and flicking away the dead ashes of his cigarette. Nervously, he pressed the button and the screen lit up.

Ahh, just Mary. He couldn’t help the slight sigh of relief that escaped him. This stress couldn’t be good for him… then again, neither was the smoking, drinking, and acts of personal self-punishment. With morbid amusement, he wondered if he should collect bets on what would catch up with him first.

A few quick swipes of his finger and he pulled up Mary’s text. Three had been sent recently.

Wrathful Wine-o: josephs throwing a cookout tmrw for the neighbourhood  
Wrathful Wine-o: new neighbour but you guys look for any excuse to bbq  
Wrathful Wine-o: come n play nice n break something

Hmm. If Robert had to place any bets, he was pretty sure it was going to be the stress that killed him. Reading the words over and over, he took a long, steadying drag of his smoke before letting his thumb move across the keypad.

Me: tempting but im gonna soft pass on this one  
Me: as much as id love to steal some free burg

Humming, Robert tried to think of an excuse to give Mary but before anything solid could come to mind, his phone was going off suddenly with a violent string of vibrations, texts showing up in quick succession.

Wrathful Wine-o: nope  
Wrathful Wine-o: wrong  
Wrathful Wine-o: bad answer smalls  
Wrathful Wine-o: your coming to the bbq  
Wrathful Wine-o: evryone will be there. hide in the crowd n be antisocial if ya gotta  
Wrathful Wine-o: but dont abandon me to a yardful of lame dads n snotty kids n angsty teens  
Wrathful Wine-o: i will never forgive you

“Shit,” Robert muttered aloud, making Betsy’s head turn toward him from where she had been sniffing at the fence. There’s no getting out of this one, huh, he figured. Their neighbourhood had an overwhelming number of dads with their kids. When it came to rounding up the neighbours all together, he and Mary naturally stuck by one another when she wasn’t playing the loving wife in her quasi-nuclear family. They were a comfort to each other, since they didn’t have to pretend to be happy. Robert imagined that she must’ve stuck by Damien since Robert’s been MIA in the wilderness, but Damien had his own kid too. He couldn’t imagine any of the other neighbours understanding her sense of humour. Honestly, most of the neighbourhood was wildly intimidated by her and for good reason. She was a tough lady.

Well, the neighbourhood as he remembered it anyway. Who knew what was going on with everyone nowadays? Vague and hazy concepts of happiness with an unstable infrastructure, always ready to collapse in on itself. All he had to do was look at when he was raising his own kid to remember how important it was to seem okay. To paint over the growing cracks and splintering wood and smile. Time always made things worse. More time, more drinking, more cracks, more paint. If anyone else in the neighbourhood was like that, pretending until the brink of exhaustion…

There was a lot he needed to catch up on in Maple Bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the Dream Daddy fandom dead yet? Cuz... here's an update pffffff
> 
> Sorry for... a year of waiting basically. I actually finished this a number of months ago but wanted to make it longer because I had taken so long with it (also cuz there's no Damien/Rob interaction in this chapter.. just.. angsty musings and internal monologues) but it was taking even more time to add to it and that's a deadly cycle to fall into haah.
> 
> I don't plan to abandon this story but I've definitely revealed myself as a very erratic writer/updater. I also need to... replay some of the game before I continue writing to reacquaint myself with the characters haah. If anyone's still around to read it, I really appreciate your patience, support, and feedback <33

**Author's Note:**

> It's literally been ten years since I've written fanfiction, treat me gently please.
> 
> There is a severe lack of Damien/Robert that I feel personally attacked by, so I wanted to see what I could contribute.
> 
> Rating is subject to change. Currently unbeta'd. I hope you enjoy.


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